I spent last weekend in Denver, watching one of my very best friends in the whole world get married. I had every intention of using my weekend back home, snuggly tucked away in a downtown hotel room, to work on my book or to catch up on sleep or to take a series of what were to be the longest showers in the history of bathing - because I could, that's why - but I made it downtown, tripped and fell into this:

Amy and Aimee and Jeremy and Jim and Bugfrog (wisely not pictured) and me and the bottle makes three tonight. Or something like that. And then I ended up with my old friends from the bar I worked at in Denver, with whom I totally intended to have deep, meaningful conversations about life and love and the proper amount of ammunition to carry on one's person at any given time, but all I walked away from that night with was a headache, puke breath and this:

I think that's a photo of a lime dipped in sugar, which means I was A) with David at Whiskey Bar and B) excessively drunk and C) had a raging case of the hiccups. Do I remember why I took a picture of a lime dipped in sugar?

What is a Rhetorical Question for $300, Alex.

A few hours of sleep and one bottle of Aleve later, I watched my kids godfather get married.

After the wedding, my other best friend and I intended to have a glorious, albeit last minute date night, complete with bottles of wine and cushy hotel beds and late night tv and general girly giggliness, not like that, pervs, but we ran into ALL my blog-fathers at a Rocky Mountain Blogger Bash Fest.Jed got a fabulous camera pic of my tits sweet face Combs smiled because he realized that Texas has changed me from a left-wing tree hugging hippy into a gun-toting, oil-guzzling libertarian. And there was much rejoicing. And by rejoicing, I mean 'welcoming me to the dark side'. And by welcoming, I mean getting hit on by Zombyboy and Vodkapundit.

And then I overslept, again, and didn't have time to get the family gifts on my way home which is fine if I'm in, like, Kansas or something but not even close to okay if I am in the land of their birth, so I did the cheesy airport gift-shop run for the boys and the cheesier airport-at-home gift shop run for my daughter, who can't read but thinks Texas is a great name for a new stuffed monkey, and when I handed out the gifts as they piled on top of me in my doorway at home, my husband came up behind all of us, put his hand on my shoulder, and sweetly whispered, "Welcome home, honey." I looked up at him and, with a little wink, said, "You'll get your present later." He smiled, and we turned to our children. What I'd hoped to be a subtle, sultry moment between my husband and I turned into our oldest son sneering at us and saying, "GROSS, guys", and storming off in a cloud of unmitigated tweenaged disgust.